


Wentz: An American Emo, or The Fall Out of Our Founding Fathers

by hanschen



Category: Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-13
Updated: 2017-01-31
Packaged: 2018-09-08 06:39:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8834263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanschen/pseuds/hanschen
Summary: How does a bastard, asshole, son of the hardcore scene, dropped in the middle of a forgotten spot in Chicago suburbs, with some regrettable tattoos, grow up to be a hero and a rockstar?





	1. We are waiting in the wings for you.

**November 2004**

Pete shed every awkward layer he had as he made his way across the bar.  Chicago taught him to layer for the beginning of Winter, but Las Vegas seemed to bake its smaller buildings like an oven.  The bar was young meets old: everything was coated in both neon and dust.  He wasn’t used to the kind of lax bar that not only let high schoolers in, but supplied them with rum and cokes to parade around and throw up later.  Back in his day, in his suburbs, you could have been at Rolling-Stones-level success, but Mick Jagger would have been thrown out for even walking up to the bar at age twenty.  Chicago has zero time for underage fuckery.

But would a protégé like Brendon Urie give a fuck?

Pete had seen a couple pictures of his Panic! at the Disco on their Myspace, and all the glitter eyeliner and brocade vests would be hard to miss, but just to be sure, he asked every girl which member of the band Brendon was.  Every girl said the same thing:  dark hair, big smile, tight pants, not drinking. 

At last, he hit the circle of high school freshman girls surrounding the kid who was desperately trying to pretend he was out of their age range.  Pete tossed his scarf on a potted plant and made a couple mental notes:

  1. You ain’t special for starting your own band. Anyone can start a band.  You don’t even remember what Arma Angelus means half the time.    
  2. Don’t be that asshole to the kids. Wanna start that label down the road?  You’ll need talent more than they need you.  They’ll find someone else if they have to.  And if they make it big, you’ll be kicking yourself later.  Which they won’t, right?  What the fuck is a panic in a disco anyway?
  3. Your scarf’s on the plant, and it’s new from Hot Topic, so that’s twenty bucks down the drain if you don’t remember it later, asshole.
  4. Can’t I get a discount from Hot Topic? For being myself?  Email manager to email their HQ later.
  5. Did I mention not being an asshole?



“Hey, bro, you’re Brendon, right?”

Brendon turned around.  He smiled, and his post-braces teeth seemed to pop out of his skull, and the room seemed to be in daylight at eleven P.M., and the stress of the world seemed to melt away, until he said (in the most cheerful tone imaginable), “That depends!  Who’s asking?”

“Oh.  Sure… I’m Pete.  I’ve been—“  This was more than a little absurd.  “… Looking for you?”  Shouldn’t the intimidation be the other way around?

“Yeah!  I’m sorry!  Wow, I’m getting nervous now.  I can’t believe you actually read your Livejournal comments.  I would too, I mean, if I had the time.”

“…. Yeah, it was great.  I had to call you.”  How was it possible to be so in love with a young talent and kind of want to punch his smirk at the same time?

“But you’re a huge inspiration.  And, if I’m assuming right, you were doing Warped when you checked out our demo?!  That’s-“

“Yeah, there was a lot going on!  You know how it is.  These guys from this other band, The Used, they’re great and all but their singer said that if I watched your video one more time I’d have to join NAMBLA.  So I chugged a beer, punched him in the face, and emailed you.  The rest is history.”  As much as a Vegas bar called The Backbooth could be a part of anyone’s history.

Brendon’s teeth were just as exposed as they were before, but his eyebrows furrowed.  “You… punched Bert McCracken?”

Pete had that familiar feeling of revealing too much information about himself at once.  His first Oh Fuck Moment of the night.  “Yeah.  You know.  Shit happens.  You never fought before?”

“Never… should I have…?”

Brendon stopped smiling.  People around them were growing quiet.  “Well, no, but-- he looked at me like I was stupid and I’m NOT stupid.  Anyway.  How’d you get on this set list?  Everyone says this place is super exclusive, like, the biggest indie night around.  Didn’t you guys just start like a few months ago?”

The smile was a distant memory.  “I had plenty of time to work on music since I left home.”

Second Oh Fuck Moment of the night.  But maybe he could fix it.  Of course.  He could always fix it.  He might fuck up a lot, but goddamn it if Pete Wentz can’t patch it right back up every time.  “You left too?  Oh shit!  I knew we had something in common.  Dude, I know your stuff isn’t hardcore at all, but we could just start our own scene, if we both—“

“Hey, can I grab you a drink?”  The smile returned. 

Maybe it wasn’t an Oh Fuck Moment after all.  “That would be killer.”

“While we’re talking, let me offer you some free advice.”

“Uh.”

“Talk less.”

“Um.”

“Smile more.”

“…What?”

“Don’t let them know what you’re against or what you’re for.”

“… Are those lyrics-“

“You wanna get ahead?”

“I already have a band, dude.”  _Maybe they hate me and say my growl is pitchy, whatever that means, but it’s true._

“I know, but I think having a band isn’t just about the music, it’s about having the whole package.  If you don’t think through what you say, like, everywhere you go, you’re going to look a little foolish.  You know what I-?”

Someone grabbed the mic on stage with such violence that he dropped it.  Pete heard the loud crack and looked over.  Some guy with crazy blue eyes, a pathetic excuse for stubble, and a frizzy Jewfro struggled to handle the mic and his guitar at the same time. “WHAT TIME IS IT?!”   Feedback rippled across the club.  Teenagers whined.  “Yeah.  SHOWTIME!!”

Normally, the words would make Pete cringe, but he welcomed the distraction.  A guy who looked a good three inches shorter than Pete (and Pete wasn’t tall to begin with) stepped up to the mic.  He had a trucker hat pulled over a pale face and ginger sideburns.  He looked nerdy, naïve, and Pete wanted nothing more than a pocket version of him.  “Hey.  I’m Patrick.  We’re… what are we?”  He muttered something to the guitarist.  Patrick also had a guitar, which he clutched anxiously to his midsection.  “We’ll figure that out I guess.  That was Joe.  Sorry about him.  He can’t stop yelling, I guess.”

“Neither can your mom!” Joe yelled from behind his own beer.

“Like I said…” Brendon muttered, his eyes on his cuticles. 

Patrick started to speak, but hiccupped into the mic.  “I’m sorry.  I had two beers.”  Scattered laughter.  Patrick blushed.  Pete was in love.  “I’m working on three, though.”

The drummer shouted something about getting to their “revolutionary set.”  Pete couldn’t see much of him in the back of the stage, but he saw full sleeve tattoos, long hair, and thick glasses.  He couldn’t hear much of him either, but it sounded like he said something about flying all the way in from Wisconsin and wanting to fucking play already.  Whoever he was, Pete adored him.

Without any further explanation, they started playing.  Immediately, Pete was transfixed.  Their rhythm and sound was fresh, intense, and cohesive.  What he would give for three people playing on the same beat.  He needed to bring Arma out to hear what a BAND sounded like.

Then they opened their mouths.

“Really?”  Brendon’s upper lip curled.  “I mean, who still sings about hating their hometown?  Honestly.  We all barely made it out.”

“Well, yeah, it’s all a little… obvious.  But listen to their singer, man.”  Pete heaved a sigh, knowing he should scale back the puppy love thing, but he couldn’t help it.

Brendon muttered something about how it wasn’t hard to fake a soul voice, but Pete couldn’t hear him, and didn’t care.

Patrick and Joe briefly exchanged words about being in the wrong place in the lyrics, and they both gave up and just stuck with the music.  Pete already missed Patrick’s voice, but he didn’t mind losing the lyrics about high school being a prison.  He wasn’t the only one jamming, he realized—even the most bored of the teenagers were paying attention.  Brendon had left, though.  Pete started to look for him, but the mystery band ended with a unified crash. 

“Alright, so… let’s address the elephant in the room.”

_Whoa, this band is way more hardcore than I ever could be.  They’re actually going to address their shitty lyrics right now?_

“We need a band name.”

Right away, teenagers started calling out variations of the word penis.  Nothing really popped out to Pete.  _Revolutionary Set might be a cool band name by itself._   Otherwise, he was pulling a blank.  He studied them, shifting as people shouted genitalia synonyms at them.  They looked awkward, a little cartoonish, and jaundiced in the dim yellowy club light.  Like awkward punk Simpsons.  Pete laughed and said to himself, “Fallout Boy.”

Patrick locked eyes with him.  Then he said probably the most awkward thing you could say into a microphone.  “Who are you?”

Joe looked puzzled and didn’t even see Pete, but grabbed the mic.  “Yeah, who are you?”

“Who Are You is a good band name but isn’t that a song already?” That poor drummer.

Every moody teenager turned to look at Pete.  He didn’t know where Brendon was, but Pete was sure he had a very disapproving look on his face. 


	2. The problem is I got a lot of brains but no polish.

There was no more room for them inside, so Pete waited outside the front door of the bar while his mystery band grabbed their free beers.

Patrick was first outside.  “So, do I know you somehow?”

“No, I’m Pete Wentz.  I’ve got a band in Chicago.”

Joe joined them, his beer half empty already (from spilling or drinking?  Who’s to say?)  “Oh, we’re from Chicago.”

“No shit!  Where?”

“Just... Suburbs.”

“Same!  What are you doing out here?!”

“Trying to tour, I guess.  What are you doing out here?”

“I’m starting my own record label.”

Andy entered and heard that.  He did not have a beer, but he had put a shirt on.  “What?  That’s crazy!  Your band must be doing awesome!”

“No, I mean… I’m not starting it quite yet.  But I want to.  I will soon.  I’m just figuring out who the first people should be on it… when I start it.”

“Oh.  That’s in parentheses, huh?” Patrick commented.

“We’re doing really well in the hardcore scene—I mean, back in Chicago, not here.  But I know I can do more than that.”

“Being in a band is plenty of work,” Andy said.

“I know but I want have a band that amazes people AND a record label just to be that much more… astonishing!”

Andy blinked.  “What’s your name again?”

“Pete Wentz.”

Joe finished his beer.  “Spelled like ‘whence’ as in, you’ll go back to Chicago, from ‘whence’ you came, and tell all the people at your record label to sign us?”

“No!  Wentz like W-E-N-T-Z, and also, no, you should come with me.  We should get signed NOW.  Together.”

“You’re going to join our band?  What makes you think that’s going to work?”

“Not to be rude, dudes, but you need a bassist.”

Patrick turned his back to Pete to whisper to Joe.  “I TOLD you.   I told you there was no way it was gonna work without one.  But no, you said no one would notice…”

“And I also write.”

Patrick turned back to Pete.  “See, that sounds like something we need.”

“Hey!  We can all write.  We’ve BEEN writing.  And it’s way deeper than people realize sometimes.”  Joe punctuated this sentence with gulping his beer and belching.

“How much have you written, Pete?” Andy asked.

Pete put down his backpack and dug out one composition notebook, one sticker-covered black sketchbook, and one three-subject spiral bound notebook. 

“Are those… filled?”

“I mean, there’s some doodles, but mostly it’s—“  Pete flipped through them.  The other guys made noises of appreciation and wonderment.   “I want to work with you guys so bad.  Like, now.  Like…. Yesterday.  I feel like we’ve wasted time just because I’m only meeting you know.  It pisses me off.  We can make this band into whatever you want.  What do you want?”

“Anarchy,” Andy said.  Pete raised his eyebrows.  Andy shifted around his little white sweat towel like it just became very heavy.  “Just a little unrest, you know.  A little.”

“I’m working at Barnes and Noble and I’d like to not be.”  Joe finished his beer and looked like he could use five more.

“I want to incorporate as many genres as possible.  Rock music doesn’t—it doesn’t have to have this one specific, this one specific thing.  Or image.  Or sound!  It could be so many different influences, it could sound like so much, but… we can’t respect one sound until we respect them all.”  Patrick kept stopping and stuttering.  He blushed harder every time he stuttered and his glasses seemed to slip off kilter a bit more.  Pete wondered if he had ever felt more platonic love for anyone else on this planet.  “Everyone can be included!!”

“Geniuses!  Lower your voices!”  Brendon came out of the same door they did and carefully shut it behind him.  “This is honestly a little creepy for you guys to be standing out here in this alley with a bunch of Heinekens ranting about music.  They know I helped get you on that lineup and the bartenders are starting to ask ME what your deal is.  Standing out here and yelling is how people get shot.”

“Brendon, dude, we’re not going to get shot.  We’re just trying to start a band.  And there’s no way we’re getting in trouble. Barnes and Noble is cool, dude.”

Brendon started to respond, but just nodded and slinked back inside.

Joe grabbed Pete’s shoulder.  “Let’s get this guy in front of a crowd!”

 

* * *

 

 

**Petewentz.livejournal.com**

**[23 Nov 2004 / 2:00am]**

I imagine death so much it feels more like a memory. when’s it gonna get me? In my sleep, 7 ft ahead of me?  If I see it coming do I run or do I let it be?  Is it like a beat without a melody?  See I never thought Id live past 20.  Where I come from some get half as many.  Ask anybody why we’re living fast and we laugh, reach for a flask.  We have to make this moment last, that’s plenty.

Scratch that.  This is not a moment. it’s the movement  
  
Im past patiently waiting. Im passionately smashing every expectation.  Every action’s an act of creation.  Im laughing in the face of casualties and sorrow. 

For the first time I’m thinking past tomorrow.  
  
xo pete


	3. You Want a Revolution (I Want a Revelation)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just three guys from some Jersey band called My Chemical Romance, searchin for some urchins who give them ideals

**September 2005**

“It literally could not be more fucking hot out if I was on the face of the goddamn SUN.  I don’t know whose idea it was to have a party in a beer tent before dark, before October.”  Frank Iero fanned himself frantically.  The black fringe in his face bobbed in what little handmade wind he could make.  “If I still have any stupid eyeshadow left, I’m sure it’s melted and on my chin now.  Or my neck.  Which is your fault, Gerard, because you wanted to use the shitty Halloween store palette again.”  He furiously rubbed at his neck, fingerless gloves running across his scorpion neck tattoo until it reddened.  “When can we GO?  Brian wants us back in the bus by midnight and I still need to go to Walgreen’s and get more socks and shit.  And we’re still going to Sonic, right?”

Gerard Way lit a cigarette.  “Brian’s in L.A.  He has no clue when we get back to the bus.  Unless Bob snitches again.”

“Well, he wanted us to call him about the updated tour schedule before—“

“Frank, nothing’s keeping you here.  We’re just trying to be social.”

Mikey Way was hunched over the card table they had claimed.  He was staring at his phone, waiting for texts to pop up on his screen and let him continue pretending to be occupied.  He hunched so far over, his glasses had slipped to the tip of his nose and every bit of his bony back jutted through his faded Anthrax t-shirt.  “Yeah, we’re really social.  Look around.  We sat in the corner as far away as possible from every other artist in this festival.”

Frank grabbed a cigarette out of the pack Gerard had discarded on the table.  “It’s bad enough we have to be in Podunk, Alabama—“

“We’re in Columbus, Ohio,” Mikey interrupted, unblinking in the bluish light of his phone.

“And it’s bad enough they only have PBR, but—“

Gerard tossed his lighter at Frank.  “Christ, Frank, if it’s what every other person wants to drink—“

Mikey finally looked up at his brother.  “Gerard, why did we come?”

 “If we don’t at least make an appearance, everyone will think we think we’re too good to collaborate.  I want to see what the rest of the scene has to offer.  I feel so isolated sometimes.  I don’t tour to be cool.  I’m looking for a mind at work.”

Frank cracked open his PBR, took a drink, and made a face.  “If I don’t get some ice for this, I’m going to start a war.”

Mikey pushed his half-melted cup of ice toward Frank without looking up.  “Fall Out Boy should be here.  I met Joe Trohman after Kansas City and he mentioned gearing up for Columbus.”

“I don’t know who that is.”

“Remember when I made you listen to that thing with the gross cover the other day?”

“No.”

“It was called like ‘Evening Out With Your Girlfriend’ I think.”

Frank’s brow furrowed.  “’Eating Out Your Ex-Girlfriend?’ What?”

“Gerard, you said it had potential.  You used that word like five times.”

“Oh yeah!  I remember now.  That was really good.  New ideas in the air.”

“Well, they have a new-“

Frank grabbed Gerard’s shoulder.  “Don’t look now, but you have a mind at work coming to see you right now.  And he’s an adolescent wearing Seinfeld’s puffy shirt.”

“Who is—“ Gerard turned around just in time to make eye contact with Brendon Urie as he waved, then tripped on grass and air.  Gerard turned back and put his cigarette out in his red solo cup.  “Shit!  It’s that kid who name drops The Killers every ten minutes.”

“Oh, I thought you wanted to collaborate with new artists on the scene.”

“Someone old enough to legally drink, I meant.”

“Well, better think of a way to let him down gracefully.  Quick.  He’s running over.”

“Fuck.  Let’s be nice.  He’s so young.”  Gerard swiped a hand through his long black hair and put on his toothiest smile just as Brendon reached them, grass stains on his black pants.  “Hey!  How’s it going?  Wow, aren’t you hot?”

“Yeah, but it’s a style!  I know people are looking for something to identify us with, and we figured no one else is really hitting the whole Victorian thing.  You know what I mean, you’ve got a look… I really like the vest!...”

“It’s hot.”  As soon as he said it, Gerard ripped at the Velcro on his bulletproof vest.  The process drowned out Brendon’s stammer and Frank’s cackle.  He threw it on the ground. 

Brendon fell silent, awkwardly glanced at his own vest, then forced a laugh.  “You guys are funny.  Wanna collab sometime?  Let me get your email.”

“I don’t know if our sounds would really… mesh well… our voices, you know.”

Brendon pretended he didn’t hear that.  “I was super inspired by _I Brought You Bullets_.  The ‘Vampires Will Never Hurt You’ video especially.  Your look has always been so distinct.  Did you come to our set yesterday?  What did you think of it?”

“We didn’t,” Frank answered.  “We didn’t think of it.”

Brendon took this in without making eye contact with Frank.  “... ‘We?’”

“Yeah.”

His smile returned and honed in on Gerard.  “So you saw it!”

“Brendon, did you ever listen to The Smiths?”

“Well, I love ‘There is a Light.’”

Frank snorted his beer and started coughing.

Gerard’s jaw twitched.  “There’s this song called ‘I Know It’s Over.’  It’s from their album ‘The Queen is Dead.’  There’s this whole section where he asks, if you’re so funny, why are you on your own tonight?  If you’re so clever, why are you on your own tonight?  If you’re so very entertaining, why are you on your own tonight?  If you’re so good-looking, why do you sleep alone tonight?”

A drop of sweat rolled down Brendon’s face, straight through some glitter eyeliner.

“It’s just a question we should all be asking ourselves.  Do you think I’m insane or just intense?”

“Oh shit, hang on, Ryan is calling me.  I’ll talk to you guys soon, okay?”

Brendon ran and disappeared into a crowd of tipsy, sweating musicians.  Gerard stared off into space as he reached for another cigarette.

Mikey, who might not have ever really noticed Brendon was there, glanced at Gerard and pushed his glasses up his nose.  “Penny for your thoughts?”

“What if the answer to those questions is that someone can be all those things, but too much of them, and that’s why they’re on their own tonight?”

“Beats me.  Can I bum one?”

Frank lifted his shirt off his body and wiped his head with it.  “Can we go back to Jersey now?!”

**Author's Note:**

> If you could not take this too seriously, that'd be great.   
> It's like 95% AU, I mean, the timeline will be kind of in the correct historical order for the first couple years' worth.   
> All feedback is welcome but honestly if you want to correct a timeline/emo-historical-accuracy thing or have an issue with "casting" it probably won't lead to much, thx


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